Chapter 3

Mrs. Margery Semple was a pillar of the parish in both moral and physical senses. I put her at about five foot ten barefoot and thirteen stone standing in her shift—a daunting prospect even in my imagination. She had begun a stately progress toward middle age, one embroidered sampler, chubby child, and pressed flower arrangement at a time.

“I have no idea where Evvie got off to, my lord,” she said when we’d dispensed with two cups of tea as well as the requisite rounds of have you met…? and I believe you might know... By diligent pursuit of my particulars, Mrs. Semple had established that she was indirectly acquainted with Lady Ophelia and had been introduced to His Grace at the last village fete.

We were practically cousins, all unbeknownst to me.

“You and Evelyn were not close?” I asked as a pug waddled into the parlor and gave me a panting perusal.

“I am several years Evvie’s senior, and thus we moved in different circles. By the time she made her come out, I had already married Mr. Semple and set up my nursery. I tried to warn Evvie about what Town would be like, but warning Evvie at that age was like explaining a republic to Napoleon. You can shout liberté, égalité, fraternité all you please, and he will even wave encouragingly, but then he insists on crowning himself emperor.”

Recent French history in a nutshell. “Were Evvie and John a love match?”

Mrs. Semple patted her knee, and the dog crossed the room to turn adoring eyes on his mistress.

“At that age, my lord, who is capable of love? We mistake infatuation and animal spirits for grand sentiment. I’m sure Evvie and John fell prey to nature’s lures, but love? I don’t believe Tait is capable of truly loving another. His mother spoiled her only son shamelessly, and we gentry do pride ourselves on our acres. He inherited a very pretty property and isn’t bad-looking himself. Evvie supposed herself lucky to win an offer from him.”

Tait was handsome, dashing even, and charming. “You don’t care for him?”

She picked up the dog, who sighed gustily and made himself at home on her lap. “I wanted to like John Tait. At first, we did like him. He was witty, doting, and friendly. Let it be said that dear Evvie had no other offers, so we looked upon John as the answer to a prayer. After the marriage, it became apparent he was too friendly with the wrong parties for Evvie’s peace of mind. By the first anniversary, we were all regretting Evvie’s choice, perhaps Evvie most of all.”

“Might Evvie have found somebody with whom she was more compatible?” The simplest explanation for her absence was that she’d eloped with a lover.

Mrs. Semple stroked the pug’s ears, and the dog closed his eyes on a rapturous grunt. “Evvie was no longer a young heiress new to Town, my lord. She’d put on some weight during her years of marriage—we Hasborough girls are not dainty to begin with—though she nonetheless exerted herself to be charming to certain young men. I doubt there was anything to it, but I am kept busy raising my own brood, and Mr. Semple advised a prudent distance from Evvie and John’s drama.”

“Tait apparently became overly friendly with your youngest sister, Ardath. Where might I find her?”

Mrs. Semple ceased fondling her dog. “In Town. Ardath is now Mrs. Humphrey Deloitte. He deals in fine cloth, wallpaper, and drapery. They bide on Hammersleigh Court. Ardie was always closer to Evelyn than I was. Ardie can tell you much more about Evelyn’s married years than I ever could. Do have some more tea, my lord. I rarely have a chance to get off my feet in the middle of the morning, much less to further my acquaintance with a distinguished neighbor.”

Mrs. Semple had not corrected my characterization of Tait’s behavior with Ardath, for which I applauded her. A pragmatic sort of woman. Tait’s term—a woman of substance—fit her in a mostly complimentary sense.

“Was Tait abusive? I ask because, if so, I will purposely fail in my quest as far as he’s concerned, even if I locate his wife. The lady left him for reasons, and he’s waited five years to take her departure seriously. That raises questions in my mind.”

Mrs. Semple poured us both more tea. “Tait was a scoundrel, cavorting shamelessly right under Evvie’s nose. I understand that men grow bored with their wives, and temptation is everywhere for those with weak characters, but Tait was unkind. I fault him in passing for straying, and straying so early in the marriage, but I hold a serious grievance with him for being cruel about it.”

The tea was hot and strong. I ventured a question I would not have put to just anybody. “Was Tait trying to compensate for an empty nursery?”

My hostess stirred honey into her cup. “Oh, very likely, and was Evvie engaged in the same foolishness? All three of her sisters have children—note the plural. I doubt the fault lay with her, if an empty nursery is a fault. England is awash in children without bread to eat or shoes to wear. More little dears are arriving by the hour. That ‘be fruitful and multiply’ business is fine for when you have a single breeding pair and all of Eden to populate, but here in the land of Nod, those conditions hardly apply, do they, my lord?”

I had seen too many orphans in Spain and London, all with the same weary despair in their eyes, the same wretched rags for clothes…

“I take your point, Mrs. Semple. Tait has said he would entertain an annulment, and childlessness will aid that cause if and when a petition is brought. If Evelyn wants to be free of Tait, I need to find her and tell her that, but I have no idea where to look.” Not quite true. I had a few hunches and suspicions.

Mrs. Semple sipped her tea, and such was her self-possession that I could not tell if she was inventorying memories or deciding just how honestly to respond.

“Evvie attended the Ellington Academy, my lord. We all did, in our turns. Schoolgirls can become friends for life, and Evvie was particularly close with the Wilner girl. Evangeline Wilner—Evvie and Evie, they styled themselves. They both accepted offers in their first Season, but I am dashed if I know the name of Evangeline’s husband. Ardie might know.”

Lady Ophelia would of a certainty. “One more question before I take my leave: With whom did Tait disport most notoriously?”

“With whom didn’t he? Several maids came and went from the household in close succession, all young and gullible. The vicar’s cousin visiting for the summer from Yorkshire—a vicar’s cousin, and Tait had to slobber over her hand and recite poetry to her at the assembly. A Mrs. Probinger from the village on your brother’s estate caught his eye… Lovely widow, though I suspect she hadn’t much time for him. His tastes were eclectic and shamefully unrestrained. Mr. Semple offered to have a word with Tait, but Evvie wouldn’t hear of anybody criticizing John’s flirtations. We settled for limiting our association with him after Evvie left.”

Why would a new husband stray that often and exuberantly? Why would any husband? “Might I call again if I have more questions?” I asked, getting to my feet.

She set the dog on the floor, and the creature affected a gaze of crushing heartbreak. “My lord, you must call even if you don’t have questions.” Her smile was so gracious that I did feel a sense of welcome, a sense of having formed an ally in an unlikely place.

Exactly the impression a skilled liar would want me to form, alas.

“Lady Ophelia Oliphant and Miss Hyperia West are biding at the Hall,” I said. “You might consider calling upon them if you have the time to spare.” I did not suggest she call upon the duke, of course. Arthur would fillet me for that much presumption.

“Thank you,” she said, rising without assistance and escorting me from the room. “I shall do that, and I might even inveigle Mr. Semple into coming with me. That will cause talk, my lord, depend upon it.”

She sailed to the front door and passed over my hat and spurs. “I hope you do find Evvie. She was always restless, and I have worried about her, but the one characteristic Evvie has to a fault is determination. If I were a betting woman, I’d wager she’s landed on her feet.”

“Let’s hope so, for the sake of all concerned. Tait acknowledges that he was a poor husband, and I believe he seeks to atone for his shortcomings, one way or another.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“Yes, more or less.”

She opened the door and accompanied me onto the porch. A boy rose from the mounting block at the foot of the steps and trotted off in the direction of the stable.

“Do you believe John Tait has recently acquired a conscience, my lord? That he suddenly seeks to put right harm he inflicted years ago?”

The day was sunny, so I put on my blue eyeglasses. “I believe he might have slowly acquired a sense of shame for how he behaved. He’s apparently much more circumspect now and reasonably well thought-of.” By Hyperia, though not by Lady Ophelia, interestingly. “Then too, he describes a situation where both parties have a basis for regrets.”

Mrs. Semple shaded her eyes as the boy returned with my horse, Atlas, in tow. “That’s possible, of course. Young people can be hotheaded and sharp-tongued. You ride a fine animal, my lord.”

“I brought Atlas home with me from the Continent. His good sense is equaled only by his bottom.”

“Perhaps one might say the same of his owner. Good day, my lord.” She curtseyed, came about, and tacked into the house before I could decide whether I’d been complimented, teased, disrespected, or all three.

I swung into the saddle, intent on joining the ladies at the Hall for my midday meal. As Atlas trotted along, I reviewed my discussion with Mrs. Semple, plagued by a feeling of dissatisfaction.

I hadn’t learned much at all. Was that because Mrs. Semple was truly ignorant of her younger sister’s situation, or because ignorance was the impression with which my formidable hostess had decided to leave me?

* * *

“Lina Wilner married…” Lady Ophelia gazed off toward the home wood as the midday breeze pushed a few dry leaves across the Hall’s back terrace. “She married George Hanscomb, though everybody called him Handsome, and that was cruel because the poor fellow was as plain as the back end of a donkey.”

“I remember that,” Hyperia said. “His family was quite well fixed. They import hardwoods from the tropics, and I forget what else. He’s an excellent dancer, doesn’t put on airs. Jules, please pass the olives.”

I complied, letting the ladies reminisce and chat in response to my questions. Arthur had deserted the ranks to meet with the head steward, which was pure tripe. If His Grace had truly been meeting with the steward, he would have dragooned me into accompanying him. I was to hold the reins at the Hall in His Grace’s extended absence, after all, a prospect I dreaded only slightly less than I dreaded the thought of a return to France.

“The Hanscombs had two children at last count,” Lady Ophelia said, swiping an olive from the dish when I’d set it by Hyperia’s elbow. “A boy and a girl, but I cannot recall which is the elder.”

“And what do you know of Ardath and Humphrey Deloitte of Hammersleigh Court?” I asked.

Lady Ophelia snitched another olive. “Silk and velvet are his primary lines, I believe. Owns a warehouse rather than a retail establishment, if you take my meaning. Doing quite well now that the war is over and people can go shopping again.”

Some people could, the people who draped themselves in elegance. Other people—the vast lot in London’s slums—were hard put to afford bread.

“Jules, you’re scowling,” Hyperia said. “Did the meal sit poorly with you?”

“The food was lovely, but I have promised Tait another call this afternoon. The two of you can anticipate a visit in the near future from a Mrs. Margery Semple, who has already been introduced to His Grace and whose acquaintance I made earlier today.”

Hyperia took her time choosing her next olive. “She’s Evvie Tait’s older sister. You called upon her in an investigative capacity.”

“And learned nothing.” So far. Further reflection might reveal information in our exchange I had initially overlooked. “I put questions to Tait yesterday and gave him the night to ponder his answers.”

Hyperia considered her olive. “Shall I come with you?”

“Thank you, no. Tait might well apprise me of behavior he’s ashamed of, and in that case, a smaller audience is more likely to result in accurate disclosures.”

Lady Ophelia looked from Hyperia to me. “The gentlemen will discuss indiscretions, Hyperia. Oh, the scandal! But, Julian, you must know that ladies discuss and even participatein indiscretions too. I have committed a few myself, shockingly delightful frolics, though you will find that hard to believe. You need not be delicate for our sakes.”

“I must be discreet for Tait’s sake. I promised him I’d keep the business to myself to the greatest extent possible, and I will hold myself to that promise.”

Hyperia set the thoroughly examined olive on her plate. “I could be useful, Jules. John has no secrets from me. We are old friends. I can prod his memory and correct his erring recollections.”

What to say to that? Would John admit to me that Perry had been among his conquests if she was sitting next to him? Would John be too busy flirting with her to give me honest answers?

“We can be of use,” Lady Ophelia said. “I shall consult my journals and so forth and look for any mention of Tait and his wife. Five years ago, they were newlyweds, and the Peninsular hostilities were just heating up. Hyperia, you had been out for a year or two and were doubtless becoming an astute observer of the passing scene. We will put our heads together and be helpful within the bounds of Julian’s vast and dunderheaded discretion.”

I could not stop them from conferring, and Godmama was right: They might recall some on-dit or innuendo that shed light on Tait’s circumstances.

“Consider any young ladies Tait might have led to believe he was courting that same Season,” I said. “Young ladies who’d resent Evelyn’s success on the marriage mart.”

Hyperia set her table napkin beside her plate, and something in her manner suggested frustration—with me. “The list will be long, Jules. Any young lady who completes her first Season with an offer in hand is resented by all of the young ladies who did not.”

Delightful. Hyperia when peevish could rival the Regent in a taking. The difficulty was, her injured pride was understandable.

“I’m interested only in young ladies who were smitten with Tait.” I was not interested in learning whether that list had included Hyperia. “If you will excuse me, I will set off on my afternoon errand.”

“I’ll walk you to the stable.” Hyperia rose, and short of rudeness, I could not decline her company.

I made my bow to Godmama and offered Hyperia my arm.

“My regards to young Tait,” her ladyship called, waggling her fingers at us in farewell. “Don’t be too hard on him, Jules, unless of course he murdered his wife and is using your good offices to muddy the waters. Then you must be the sledgehammer of justice. I’ll spend the afternoon in the company of my diaries. Always a pleasant and entertaining prospect.”

She blew us a kiss and wafted into the house on a breeze of gardenia and mischief.

“I want to grow up to be just like her,” Hyperia said. “Except that Lady Ophelia is a true original, and thus one cannot emulate her exactly. One never sees her at a loss.”

I thought back over the years of my interactions with her ladyship. “She was distraught at Papa’s funeral service. Utterly silent. I accompanied the other men to the graveside, and I recall her standing in the churchyard, looking…” Bereft.Shattered.

Everlasting providence. Had she counted Papa among her indiscretions?

“Don’t think about it, Jules,” Hyperia said, leading me toward the terrace steps. “Their generation did things differently, and it was all a long time ago, and consenting adults and eight other platitudes. John did not kill Evvie.”

I didn’t think he had. “The only person who could know that for a fact, Perry—besides John Tait—is the person who did kill Evelyn.”

“I hate that you can think like that, but that is precisely why you are the ideal resource to aid John now.”

John.If ever the Almighty blessed me with male offspring, not a one of them would be named John. Not for a middle name or a nickname. Not John, Jean, Ian, Ivan, Jan, Johann, Giovanni, Jonas, Seán, or Vanya… The boar hog at the home farm was welcome to call himself John.

“I doubt the situation involves murder,” I said as we took the path that led to the stable. “Rather, I doubt Tait had any hand in murder.”

“You may be assured he is no murderer.”

English choirboys were capable of enthusiastic murder when the French cavalry charged them. “I, too, acquit Tait of murder, Perry—provisionally—because if Tait had killed his wife, his best course would be to let another few years go by, then petition the courts to have her declared dead. The longer he waits to bring a lawsuit, the more any evidence of bickering and infidelity fades from memory and the longer Tait has to cultivate a reputation for probity.” Then too, the statutory seven years would have elapsed, making the timing less suspect.

“You truly don’t care for him, do you?” Hyperia asked.

“I barely know the man, and I have more sympathy for his circumstances than you might think. We have no idea where Harry is buried, whether he took his own life to thwart his captors, died under torture, succumbed to jail fever… No idea why he left camp, whether he thought he was following orders or possibly was following orders. Tait is right—the not knowing is a malaise, and the only cure is the truth.”

Hyperia stopped and gathered me in a hug. “I’m sorry, Jules. Of course you understand John’s situation.” She let me go as swiftly as she’d embraced me. “I almost hope Evelyn is dead, though you mustn’t tell anybody I said that. A painless, swift, and noble death, too, of course.”

“Perry, she was not yet thirty and was as deserving of a long and happy life as the next soul. Why would you say such a thing?” Had Tait said such a thing to Hyperia?

“Because then John could at least put her money to use, Jules. Show me a farmer who doesn’t need an infusion of cash, and I will show you a liar. She was well dowered—all four Hasborough girls were—and she died without issue. Somewhere, a pot of money is sitting idle, or gaining interest at a very slow rate.”

Dear Perry might well have solved the riddle of Tait’s timing. Perhaps he could not afford to wait for the courts, and if Evelyn had been laid to rest in some rural churchyard two years ago, why should he?

“How destitute is he?” I asked as the stable came into view.

“I never said John was destitute, but he doesn’t entertain, he seldom goes up to Town, and he’s awash in acreage.”

Land-poor. The all-too-common story. Wealthy in real property, but in want of cash. Or was Tait simply a squire without a hostess to put fresh bouquets on his sideboards and choose menus worthy of guests?

“I will ask about Evelyn’s settlements,” I said. “Your mention of that line of inquiry is very useful, Perry, and I thank you for it.”

She parted from me on that note, and I wanted to call her back—to apologize, to interrogate, to simply hold her. This business with Tait sat increasingly ill with me. I was comforted not at all to conclude it sat increasingly ill with Hyperia too.

* * *

“You got your card in your pocket, guv?” Atticus posed his question from atop a bay equine whose antecedents might have numbered among the native specimens of North Devon. The beast, Ladon by name, was technically a large pony, though for the sake of Atticus’s pride, I referred to his mount as a small horse. Height aside, Ladon—named for the mythical dragon who guarded Hera’s golden apples—was coming off summer much in need of exercise.

Atticus, my tiger, was much in need of time in the saddle, and for my part, I needed a reliable report on the situation belowstairs at Tait’s domicile.

“Eyes up, Atticus. Staring at the horse’s mane won’t help when he shies at a rabbit. My card is always in my pocket.” I referred not to a calling card, but to a few lines written in my own hand, explaining—to me—that I was prone to short, complete lapses of memory, and I could return to the Duke of Waltham for safekeeping until the bout passed. The card had been Hyperia’s idea, and writing it in my own hand provided a means for me to authenticate its authorship even when a lapse was upon me.

“A lad don’t have to worry about rabbits scarin’ ’is ’orse in London,” Atticus replied, dutifully lifting his gaze to the road ahead.

“No pickpockets, confidence tricksters, sponging houses, or blacklegs in the countryside. Ready to try some trotting?”

“I hate trotting.”

“Because you don’t post. Watch me, watch how I rise with each step and descend to the saddle with the next. Once you get the knack, you never forget it. Posting is much easier on the horse’s back and on your rosy fundament too. I’ll go first.”

My trusty Atlas, having learned the drill a fortnight past, adopted the slowest trot he was capable of, a sort of lazy horse’s passage. Atticus gamely thumped his mount’s side with booted heels. Ladon lifted into the trot, and Atticus bounced upon his back like a busker’s puppet jigging on a barrelhead.

“Up, down, up, down,” I sang out in rhythm to the smaller equine’s gait. “One, two, up, down, one, two, up, down…”

Atticus’s backside and the horse’s spine were both taking a pounding. I gave up after another few hundred yards, because the boy was simply not catching on. Children were supposed to be natural riders, but in some regards, Atticus, for all his youth, hadn’t much childhood left in him.

“Enough,” I said as Atlas dropped back to the walk. “Let him blow for a bit.”

“Ladon isn’t tired,” Atticus retorted as the pony returned to the walk. “I’m just no good at riding.”

“Every skill takes time to acquire, my boy. Miss West tells me you are becoming a prodigious reader. A few months ago, you could barely spell your name.”

“Miss West makes reading easy, and the newspapers never use big words. So what am I supposed to listen for when I’m having my kitchen beer?”

A good question, though I wished Atticus were more curious about equitation. The ability to handle a horse was a salable skill and a gentleman’s art. The boy would do well to master it.

“Tait’s wife ran off five years ago,” I replied, “or so he would have me believe. He says they were devoted, but they bickered constantly. I’m to locate the lady or discern her fate, no matter how unfortunate.”

“Bickering can be fun, to hear some tell it,” Atticus replied, patting his pony. “Bickerin’ and kissin’ and kissin’ and bickerin’. When I worked at Makepeace, the maids and footmen were always up to one or t’ other.”

At Makepeace, the manor house where Atticus had previously been employed, he’d been the boot-boy, general dogsbody, and drudge-at-large, despite his tender years. Nobody had been educating the lad. Nobody had been preparing him for a trade, much less contemplating articles of apprenticeship for him. The situation had offended my sensibilities, particularly when Atticus had shown himself to be resourceful, and—in his own dear, foul-mouthed, pigheaded way—honorable.

“You listen,” I said, “for any sense of how long the staff has been in service to Tait. You gently inquire as to where the missus is, because nobody tells you anything, and you haven’t been with me very long to know what I’m about. You compliment the cook on her ale and make a discreet inspection of the lower reaches.”

“Nose about? I’m good at that.”

He was, the little blighter. “And so modest too. I want a sense of Tait’s finances. I can understand why a man would look for a missing wife, but Tait has waited five years to get serious about searching. Why that long, when in another two years he’ll have recourse to the courts?”

“You mean he needs to marry for blunt? I thought only you nobs did that.”

“We might have invented the game, but anybody can play it, especially gentry.” Could and did play. “Keep an eye out for excessive economies, debts overdue, wages going unpaid, scanty stores in the larders, that sort of thing. Chat up the outside help, too, if you can manage it.”

Atticus gave his pony a slack rein, stood in the stirrups, and settled back into the saddle. “Doesn’t seem right, though, does it? Tait asked you to find his missus, and you start off by snooping about in Tait’s own castle. So what if he’s in dun territory? Most folk are. Most nobs are. How does that tell you where his missus got off to?”

Who needed a conscience when Atticus was on the job? “The state of matters belowstairs won’t tell me where Mrs. Tait has got off to, though Tait might well have lied about his finances and made promises in the settlements that he could not keep. We need to know if dishonesty on his part or looming penury drove Mrs. Tait to seek greener pastures.”

I was improvising, trying to excuse my own curiosity. My own nosiness.

“You think he’s sweet on Miss West, and you hope he’s a pauper.”

No… and yes. “Don’t be impertinent.” I brandished my riding crop with mock sternness in Atticus’s general direction. Not for anything would I have truly threatened the boy with it. Atticus had known enough of corporal punishment, often for de minimis transgressions.

Ladon, though, well knew what the intended purpose of a riding crop was and took off smartly not at the trot, but at the canter. Atticus hadn’t cantered to speak of, that gait being appreciably faster than the trot.

The boy nonetheless stood in the stirrups when he ought to have pulled on the reins, yodeled like a dragoon on the tail of a retreating French column, and waved a fist in the air.

“Catch him,” I muttered, nudging Atlas into pursuit.

We hung back until the pony began to tire, and the whole time, Atticus hovered over his mount’s withers, happy as a Cossack and completely at ease with the horse’s rhythm. When Ladon finally broke to the trot, Atticus posted along with the natural grace of a lad born to the saddle, until he brought his mighty steed to the walk.

“That were glorious wonderful,” Atticus announced, thumping Ladon’s hairy shoulder. “The best. Ladon is fast, isn’t he?”

Ladon was a sloth with four hooves. “He was nigh galloping, my boy. He’d be halfway to the sea if you hadn’t pulled him up.”

“Let’s do it again.”

“Ladon needs to blow, Atticus. He’s not used to a rider who likes to go fast. He’s been indentured to the pony cart for too long.”

“That’s rubbish,” Atticus retorted. “A fellow needs to stretch his legs from time to time, and Ladon deserves some fun.”

Don’t we all?Ladon’s idea of fun was a half-dozen apples and an afternoon spent napping and grazing. “We’ll get him legged up, but you must be patient with him. He’s a man of mature years, and his greatest strength is surviving on short rations.”

“More bleedin’ rubbish. I hate short rations. Race you to the next gateposts!”

I did not let Atticus win the race, though when Atlas and I pounded along on Ladon’s heels, the pony gamely approximated a true gallop for a few strides before we overtook him. By the time we turned through Tait’s gateposts, Atticus was threatening to become a jockey.

I let him blow, so to speak. Tomorrow, he’d be hard put to get out of bed, given today’s exertions. Fun was all well and good—even Wellington had understood the need to occasionally entertain the troops—but frolic always came at a price.

I handed Atlas off to a groom, removed my spurs, and prepared to interrogate Tait on the subject of his frolics and the price he might still be paying for them five years on.